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“You're happy?” I whisper up at her. “Please tell me you're happy.”
She nods tightly. “I'm so happy,” she whispers back.
Chapter 21
Vanessa
It's probably too late to do anything about it now, but I'm still determined to get these weeds cleaned up. I stare at the smallish patch of garden at the front of the cabin, hands on my hips, as if daring them to fight back.
Stan said that this was the first building that his ancestors built. Though I'm grateful for the indoor plumbing, I still sort of see the bones of the life that they must have led. I'm looking out the same windows, lighting a fire in the same hearth at night. I'm putting my clothes in the same cedar lined closet. There is a certain continuity here, a thread that connects me all the way back to when his people first came to the United States. I like that.
I briefly thought about going to live with my grandmother, as my dad had suggested. But the fact is, I barely know that woman. I've always traveled around with my parents, and I feel very close to them. Not grounded, like people who have lived continuously in an orchard for century, but connected anyway. Connected in our own way. I know what kind of people we are, and I value that familiarity.
But my grandmother… she's a mystery. I could no more find myself at home with her than any other stranger. No more than living in the dorms with my roommate. No more than anybody else that I could pick up.
With a pitchfork, I start moving tangles of long grasses to one side. There are years of half-decomposed vegetation in here. Actually, I suppose would make a pretty good garden again with all this co
mpost enriching the soil. But no one has worked it for a long time. I guess the guys have been in the big house for a very long time, or so I assume.
But the work feels good. Between the pointed shovel and the hoe and the pitchfork, I manage to dig out hundred square feet of black, fertile soil and make a giant pile of weeds that we could probably put at the end of the orchard with everything else. It feels like progress.
A flock of birds rise from the shrubbery, and I see it moving. I half expect to see a deer or two traipse out onto the lawn, but to my surprise it's Margie. She waves her hand as she trudges across the lawn, holding her sweater closed over her bosom. Her hair is curly and sticking out all over the place. She's wearing a pair of great bright green rubber boots with her jeans tucked in.
“Little late in the season for gardening, isn't it?” she asks with a smile when she comes closer.
“Oh, it's just something I meant to do earlier,” I explain. “I know it's pointless, but still felt like I needed to take a stab at it, you know?”
“Gardening's good for the soul,” she says sagely. “Looks like you made a lot of progress here.”
I smile, totally pleased with myself.
“I guess I could throw down some seeds,” I muse. “What comes up early? Peas? Something like that?”
“Oh, sure,” she nods, looking around. “Sweet peas… spinach, lettuce. You could get all those things in the ground now if you wanted to. If it doesn't work out, just sow them again next spring. If you're here that long, I mean.”
I shrug. “Yeah… I guess planting things is kind of pointless, since we’re leaving.
“You never know,” she says kindly. “There might be a whole bunch of new people here who really like sweet peas. Be like leaving them a present!”
“Well, that's a nice way of looking at it,” I agree.
“I’ve got a seed bank,” she says. “You want to come take a look? Maybe you’ll find a few things you like that you could just toss around.”
“Really? That would be great!”
“Yeah, let's take a walk.”
Margie leads me back through the orchard and down a path I've never been on before. It circles behind the Geller house, leading through some impressive stacks of firewood and a large burn pile. I had wondered where the guys took all the grass clippings to be burned. Now I know.
I follow behind her, listening to the birds and the far-off sound of one of the boys in the tractor.
It's a long, pleasant walk. The trail is narrow but well-defined and we circle around the back of her house. I see that it’s similar to the cabin, but not made of logs. It's frame with wooden shingles and a low, pitched roof.
The back porch is spacious and newer. A long picnic table sits in the center with a bright blue umbrella and an assortment of candles. Dozens of small statues litter the edges of the walkway and the railing of the porch. There are dogs, children, garden gnomes, and an assortment of mythical creatures.
“Oh, don't mind my menagerie,” Margie chuckles. “I like to have lots of characters around me, you know? Keep things lively.”
I smile to myself, understanding exactly what she means. I never realized how nice it is to have a lot of characters around. That certainly has made my life a lot more enriched.
